


Not What I Need (But I Want It All The Same)

by atotallyoriginalusername



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A lot of talking, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Americanisms, Angst, Asshole Cats, British English, Brought to you by alcohol insomnia and cigarettes, Casual misogyny, Cocktail Themed Innuendo, Cos I swear a lot, Eren is an angry boy, Fuck is used like punctuation, Heavily Edited Chapter 2, Homophobic Language, I can't think right now I'm so tired., I have grammar ocd so i keep editing this, I promise I'm still working on this, I take ages to write shit, I think some tags were deleted, I'm not confident about this, I'm sorry America, I'm trying, I've learned most of it from movies, I've only been to America twice, I've probably insulted your culture, I've probably insulted your religion too. I'm sorry, Introspection, It doesn't change much though, Levi is a bit of a moron, M/M, My terrible understanding of American Colloquialisms, No Nine Inch Nails were played during the writing of Chapter 3, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Eren Yeager, POV Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), POV Third Person, Present Tense, Rated E for future chapters, Sarcastic Eren Yeager, Sarcastic Levi, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Tattooed Eren Yeager, Terrible space imagery, This is probably not as miserable as the summary makes it out to be, This probably doesn't have any plot really, Which means I've stereotyped you, and I have a very strange sense of humour, but I love them both, i like to swear, this might take a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atotallyoriginalusername/pseuds/atotallyoriginalusername
Summary: PLEASE NOTE: There are some personal issues going on in my life right now and as such, I have not been able to update this as I had hoped to. I **am** still working on this fic, however, I have no idea how long it is going to be before I am able to get a new chapter uploaded. Sorry32-year-old Levi Ackerman doesn't realise just how bored he really is. Jaded, stuck in a routine of work, gym, clean, oblivion and bordering on clinically depressed, to say things are a bit shitty is an understatement.24-year-old Eren Jaeger has a problem. Fired from his job as an English Teacher after assaulting a student's father (the guywasan asshole), he just about manages to avoid jail time thanks to his lawyer (and ex-lover,alsoan asshole), and now he has to spend the next six months in anger management classes with some pacifist asshole looking down on him and showing him how to "cope with things".When Levi's asshole cat knocks a bottle of his best scotch from the roof of his apartment block, almost killing one unsuspecting Eren Jaeger, neither man realises how much of an impact it will have on both of their lives.





	1. Of Whiskey Stains and Angry Brains: A Minor Catastrophe

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this has been floating about in my head for a little while now. I have got some sort of outline for it, but every time I start work on it, it takes me in a totally different direction from where I originally planned it. Also, I have quite a time-consuming job IRL so updates will be slow. 
> 
> I love comments! Kudos would be great too but I'd really like to hear your thoughts, positive or negative, please and thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _"It's his fucking eyes, though. Sure, they look a little bloodshot, a little red underneath, a little irritated. But_ holy fuck! _Levi doesn't think he's ever seen eyes like these before. They're wide and impossibly green and, right now, radiating fury. They're probably fucking visible from space._
>> 
>> _Levi feels those little jolts pulsing through his gut again. If it wasn't for the current situation, Levi's sure he'd be hitting on this guy right now._
>> 
>> _Yeah, it's totally the alcohol."_
> 
> Or, 750 odd words of Levi being all introspective and shit before his cat knocks a bottle over and Levi's life starts to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a second chapter written... and a partial third ... but I want to see how this goes before I put any more of this up, so let me know if you like it or not...
> 
> Also, I have no-one helping me out with this so I have checked it like 4 million times for grammar and spelling issues. I think I got everything, but sometimes you miss stuff so if you notice anything let me know.
> 
> As a side note on grammar, my use of punctuation is questionable and for that, I am very sorry.
> 
> Fingers crossed it's okay.

It gets overwhelming sometimes, the City. The constant stream of headlights and tail lights. The stop signs, the Cross, Do Not Cross. The car fumes and the stench. The convenience stores, the eateries. The non-stop, twenty-four-seven neon glow that offers you the Moon, but costs you the Earth. The noise. The people.

Too many fucking people, always moving; herding around the streets from store to store, bar to bar, or job to job. They get in the way, never looking up. Always fucking talking. Never stopping to take a breath.

It’s overwhelming. Like your third plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

At 32 years old, Levi is, apparently, too young to have such a cynical outlook. Like there’s some level of life experience you’ve got to reach before you can open your fucking eyes. He’d tell you he levelled-up a while ago, long before he got his nine-to-five and became a respectable member of society. Or respectable in society’s eyes, at least.

His nine-to-five requires him to wear a suit and carry a briefcase, and pay into a pension fund every month. There’s three hundred and forty-four dollars in his bank account just now, and eighty-five cents and a Chapstick in his pocket. He gets paid this Monday. He has a company Amex card and a photograph of his cat in his wallet. The wallet is Italian leather. The cat’s an asshole.

He keeps to a schedule: goes grocery shopping on Mondays and hits the gym Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. On Saturdays, he gets dragged out to socialise. It usually ends up with him knocking back shots and watching other people do the socialising. His circle of friends is solid, though; they’re ok with that. He sleeps in on Sundays, then cleans his shitty city-centre apartment twice. He cleans his shitty city-centre apartment every day; it’s just that there’s a lot of _mess_ left over from his Saturday nights.

Today is Friday.

Levi doesn’t schedule Fridays: he spends them on the roof of his apartment block, drinking scotch and questioning his life choices. He usually finds the answers at the bottom of the fifth glass. He’s halfway through his third just now. His legs are dangling over the roof ledge, and the bottle of scotch sits to his side. His cat, Connard – that’s asshole in French by-the-way – is sitting next to him, her eyes flicking between the bottle and Levi in silent judgement. He raises his glass and tips it slightly towards her. She gets up and turns the other way.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.” He says, rolling his eyes at her as she stretches out and waves her ass at him for longer than necessary.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been up here. He doesn’t wear a wristwatch, and he hasn’t used a pocket watch since that one time he was into the steampunk thing. If the noise coming from the queue outside Reeves’ Bar across the street is anything to go by, it’s probably around eight o’clock. It’s open mic night tonight. He likes to listen to them play – some of them are pretty good – and the music helps him think better. He looks at his empty glass. Scotch helps him think better too. He pours another.

The air outside is nice: there’s a slight breeze, but there’s no bite to it. The streets are busy, despite the time, though the noise from the traffic has died down to a persistent hum. Levi finds the constant chatter of people is not as grating on his nerves as it normally is. A street preacher stands on the corner. He's reading from whatever fantasy novel it is he believes in and yelling at passersby to repent. A couple of them tell him, very kindly, to fuck off. Others aren't so nice about it. When someone actually repents, the guy looks like he’s having an aneurysm. ( _“Shit! That’s never happened before!”)_

Levi lets out an amused snort and knocks back his drink. _‘Damn religious nuts… ’_.

The cat nuzzles against his hand, interrupting his train of thought. She purrs as he rewards her with a scratch under her chin.

As he pets the cat, someone starts butchering Bohemian Rhapsody from inside the bar. He pours himself another drink; maybe open mic night is Saturday. He’s reconsidering his fondness for live music when Connard bolts off the ledge.

It’s only a split second, but Levi knows it’s going to happen. Before he has any time to react, the bottle falls on its side, rolls off the ledge, and smashes to the ground.

“Fucking Christ!” A startled voice screams from below.

_‘Shit!’_

“What in the actual fuck!?” The guy seems pissed.

Levi doesn’t want to look over the ledge. Not if he can help it.

_‘What if he’s hurt?’_

But he does.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see. If he’s lucky, he’ll see an angry man who got a fright and nothing more. If he’s unlucky, it could be a bloodbath and a lawsuit.

_‘Fuck!’_

Levi doesn’t believe in luck. He could be looking at a lawsuit no matter what the scenario. He’s going to have to call Erwin.

“Hey dickhead, you just gonna stand there gawking?” The guy shouts up at him.

Levi doesn’t want to call Erwin.

“Hey!”

There’s a crowd building up in the doorway of the bar, looking to see what’s going on. Most people are completely ignoring the guy, though. A girl on her phone stops to check he’s ok but she’s walking on now, too.

The guy looks up again just as Levi’s pulling back. “HEY ASSHOLE!”

He _could_ walk away. There’s nothing to stop him.

He heads for the stairs, the angry man screaming abuse and insults at his back.

He could go back to the safety of his apartment and open another bottle. Carry on enjoying his Friday as though nothing had happened. He _could_ do that.

But damn Levi and his fucking conscience.

When Levi gets to the door, the guy is still on the sidewalk, looking up to the roof and muttering expletives. He looks taller than Levi, but not by much. He’s wearing a light grey fitted suit, a black shirt, no tie, and black dress shoes. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing butterscotch skin strained across a slender neck. Levi can tell that he keeps in shape by the way the suit sits on him.

Gritting his teeth, he steps out into the street, trying his best to look disinterested. For Levi, whose natural expression is apathy, it's not that hard. 

“Hey, you alright?”

The guy's head whips around at the sound of Levi’s voice, causing something to spark in Levi's gut. As the electricity jolts through his veins, he thinks the alcohol is finally hitting him.

The kid can't be any older than 20. His hair is chocolate-brown and flops down below his ears, sticking out in every direction. He has a young-looking face, wrinkled as it is with the way he's furrowing his brow and puckering his deep pink lips in a petulant frown. He looks like he's trying to solve a math equation.

It's his fucking eyes, though. Sure, they look a little bloodshot, a little red underneath, a little irritated. But _holy fuck!_ Levi doesn't think he's ever seen eyes like these before. They're wide and impossibly green and, right now, radiating fury. They're probably fucking visible from space.

Levi feels those little jolts pulsing through his gut again. If it weren't for the current _situation,_ Levi's sure he'd be hitting on this guy right now.

Yeah, it's totally the alcohol.

The boy tilts his head and points a finger upwards, flicking his eyes in the same direction. “You the asshole from the roof?” His eyes return to fix on Levi.

“Yeah,” Levi says, nodding and waving a hand at the boy’s clothes, “there’s scotch on your su– “

“No shit, asshole!” He throws his hand back, jabbing his index finger at the sidewalk behind him. “I’m lucky that’s all that's on it!”

Levi’s eyes follow the boy’s fingers to the shattered pieces of glass strewn over the concrete.

Looking back to the boy, he shakes his head and turns his palms out, shrugging. “I didn’t throw that bottle.”

The kid steps closer to Levi, leaning forward. “Did it fall from the fucking sky?” He points back up towards the roof. “I didn’t see anyone else up there, besides you.”

Levi fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, swallowing down a lump that’s wedged itself somewhere in his throat. _God-damn it!_ Levi Ackerman does _not_ get intimidated. Not by some (ridiculously attractive) kid. No matter how hard those (incredible) blue eyes are burning into his head right now.

He wants to explain, wants to tell the kid that it was an accident, but he doesn’t think he’ll believe him. He’s not sure if he can get the words out anyway.

_‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’_

The kid’s still glaring at him, waiting for an explanation. _‘Jesus kid, what colour even are your eyes?’_

“You gonna answer the fucking question?”

“That’s some mouth you’ve got, kid.” And the kid’s face bunches up like he’s got a mouthful of lemons. “You know, you shouldn’t screw your face like that, it makes you look constipated.”

The kid looks like he’s about to explode like a supernova. His hands curl into tight fists, and his face turns red as slaughter. Levi’s sure the kid’s about ready to punch him and braces himself for it. Instead, the boy lets out an exasperated groan and draws his hand down his face. “Are you doing this on purpose or does it come natural?”

Levi folds his arms and takes a step back, watching the boy pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. “What?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Being an asshole.” The boy says through gritted teeth, closing his eyes and pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Levi is _one hundred percent_ an asshole, but right now he needs the kid to calm down.

“Ok kid, I'm an asshole.” He says, raising his hands to his chest in surrender, “I’m sorry, now, are you alright?”

“Do I fucking look alright?” Levi watches the kid’s knuckles whitening as he rakes his hands through his hair. The way he's clutching at the wayward strands makes his hair stick up even more.

Levi considers the kid; he looks like shit, and not only because he’s just been marinated in half a bottle of whiskey. If Levi didn't think he’d lose teeth out of it, he'd tell the kid to reel it in. To be honest, Levi thinks the kid is overreacting. Sure, the guy almost got brained by a wayward scotch bottle, but it’s not like it was deliberate. Levi's at a loss for what to do. Doesn’t have a strong vocabulary when it comes to comforting words. In theory, he's supposed to know how to deal with this; it's a little different in practice.

He crosses his arms again and leans against the apartment block wall. “Look, kid, if – ”

“I am not a fucking kid!”

Levi closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. He doesn’t have the time or the patience to reason with this guy. “Then you need to calm down and stop acting like one.”

The petulant lip returns to the boy’s face. He pulls at his suit jacket. “This shit cost me a month’s wages.”

Levi does not believe for one minute that the suit is the main issue. But, if it’s the kid says it's the suit that’s bothering then Levi can fix the fucking suit. 

He steps forward, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and pulls out a business card. “Here, take this, that’s my office number." He says, pushing the card into the boy's hand. "Go home, cool off and call on Monday. We’ll do something about your suit then.”

Levi turns and heads off without giving the kid any more time to react. He’s still half expecting him to come tearing after him.

“Wait, that’s it?” The kid shouts.

Levi doesn't stop walking and doesn't look back. “Monday,” is all he says as he opens the door.

“But– “

“Go home, kid.” The door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... well? Was it ok? Do I suck? Did I swear too much? Is it boring?


	2. Of Cocktail Shakers and Heartbreakers: A Welcome Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _"He's spent enough time pouring over the shit-show that is his life, and now he just wants to get shitfaced instead and forget about it._
>> 
>> _He's got a lot to forget; like the fact he doesn't have a job and is no longer employable, thanks to his recently acquired criminal record. Crucially though, he wants to forget that, for the second time in his twenty-four years of existence, he owes his ass to a Kirschtein. Although_ technically, _this particular Kirschtein has already had his ass. Several times._
>> 
>> _Eren would rather forget that part, too."_
> 
> Or, around 3100 words of quiet reflection on Eren's past, a textual exchange between siblings and some flirty fun with cocktails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok Thanks so much for all the Kudos and comments, wasn't expecting that for a first fic (or any fic of mine really!) It makes me so happy :D
> 
> I am nowhere near finishing Ch. 3 but I can't keep this back cos I kinda like this chapter. Apologies for the sporadic updates. 
> 
> Little POV switch here.
> 
> I've checked this for spelling and grammar so many times that if I've missed any it's because I'm blind to it. If you notice something, please let me know. :D
> 
> Also, this is where my terrible understanding of all things American kind of kicks in, so apologies in advance to America x
> 
> As always, any comments/suggestions/thoughts are very much appreciated. Still looking to see if this is any good and worth keeping going or not.

Eren had just started middle school when his parents first became aware of his anger issues.

In fact, it was his first day there.

He remembers, despite his usual self-confidence, being so fucking nervous that he'd sweat through two shirts before he'd even left the house. The weather hadn't helped: Shiganshina summers were notorious, but there had been a heatwave that year. It made his uniform – scratchy and stiff from newness as it was – stick to his skin in the most uncomfortable places.

When his mom had dropped him off, she had kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his hair, telling him not to look so worried, that the other kids would be nervous, too.

As he sat in that stifling classroom, tugging at his collar to try and ease the tight feeling in his throat, he'd watched them talk amongst themselves. They didn't look nervous. They all seemed to know each other.

Eren didn't know anyone.

He'd been home-schooled up until then, and he'd lived way out in the sticks. His nearest neighbour was a mile from them. Even his best friend lived two miles away. Or at least he had until his grandfather had him sent to some genius school for the gifted. For the first time, Eren had found himself wishing that his overprotective sister had been in his class instead of at high school.

As he watched the other kids, he wondered if he would be able to make friends with any of them; if they would even like him. 

When the teacher came in and started taking roll call, he stopped wondering.

It was the sideways glances that he'd noticed first when the teacher had called his name out, then a couple of barely audible giggles. It had made the tiny room seem even more claustrophobic.

In the playground, during recess, the funny looks and stifled giggles graduated to mocking and insults. 

_"Eren is a girl's name."_

Eren didn't understand: it wasn't a girl's name, it was his name. It didn't even matter. Still, they wouldn't stop.

_"Shouldn't you be playing Barbie with the other girls, Eren?"_

He'd tried to ignore them, tried to brush their stupid comments off, but it made his gut lurch and his head hurt every time they opened their mouths. 

And the bastards were relentless.

On the way back to class, it had started to get physical. They knocked his books out of his hands.

_"Bet you fight like a girl, too, Eren."_

They tripped him up in the corridor. 

_"Do you fight like a girl?"_

On his first day at middle school, Eren lost his shit. He did not, in fact, fight like a girl. Whatever the fuck that meant anyway – he'd saw his sister fight, once. She could have kicked all their asses without breaking a sweat.

Eren got a two-day suspension and made his mom cry. He remembers his dad trying to be cool about it, mumbling some shit about boys being boys and saying Eren was just Eren. His mom hid her face in her hands and told him she did _not_ raise her boy that way.

"Just Eren" made his mom cry a lot through middle school.

When Eren got to ninth grade, his dad got a teaching post at Trost University Hospital. His mom had said moving to the city would be a fresh start, a chance to try again. A chance to fit in.

For a while, he did fit in. He settled down, made friends, and got along with people. Well, he mostly did: there were still some incidents. 

Eren liked to blame Jean Kirschtein for that.

They were both fifteen: Jean was tall, confident and graceful; Eren was five-foot-four of awkward. All acne, teeth and gangly legs. Jean was good at sports; Eren liked art and literature. The first day he met him, Jean had told him that arty shit was for girls.

 _"Says the guy called GENE,"_ Eren had said.

_"It's French, you idiot! It sounds like John."_

He'd been so fucking arrogant, all ego and swagger. Eren hated him. Got into fights with the cocky asshole more times than he could count.

The school principal called it a personality clash, Eren's dad blamed puberty and testosterone. Eren had insisted it was because Jean was a moron.

Fucking Kirschtein with his stupid two-toned hair and that stupidly horsey, stupidly handsome face. 

That was what confused Eren the most. The way he'd look at Jean and think he was handsome. It made him feel weird and floaty, and hot and sick all at the same time. 

He started drawing him. Just at soccer practice at first. He'd sit out on the bleachers and pretend to be sketching the team, but it was only ever Kirschtein. Then he started doodling pictures of him in other classes; sneak looks at him in math, or in chemistry, or any lessons they shared together. His school books had more pictures of the horse-faced bastard in them than actual coursework.

Stupid Kirschtein with his stupid, intense eyes. His eyes were light brown; Eren’s mind kept coming up with ridiculous colours like _hazelnut caramel_ or _honeyed amber_. And it offended Eren’s masculinity, thinking about Jean’s eyes like that: Eren already had a girl’s name (apparently), now he’d picked up some girly interests, too.

Like liking boys.

He remembers the day he'd found out that Jean liked him back. 

He'd been sitting out by the fountain at the back of the art building doodling when Jean had skulked over to talk to him about some project they’d been assigned together for chemistry. He’d noticed Eren's sketchbook and snatched it from his hands. Eren remembers panicking when Jean had started flipping through the pages, terrified that he would realise all the drawings were of him. 

He started to lose it, screaming his head off about how Jean had no right to go through his stuff like that. Jean retaliated by pushing Eren around and getting all up in his face. So Eren kissed him and waited for a punch in the gut. What he got was Jean kissing him back. They ended up rolling around on the grass like they always had before, only this time, they weren't fighting.

That was when his parents finally learned that Eren had a serious problem and that it wasn't just boys being boys. 

It was Reiner who’d caught them.

They hadn’t expected Reiner to come stomping past – the fountain was where the all the weird kids hung out, that day it was deserted. Reiner started running his mouth off the minute he’d saw them. Said that he’d always knew there was something fruity about the loud mouth, emo kid, but not _Kirschtein_! He’d said the rest of the soccer team would be _very_ interested to hear their star player was a fag.

Eren can’t remember what else the brawny, blond bastard had said. As soon as that had come out of Reiner’s mouth, Eren’s world went red.

He remembers feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin at the sound of the word, remembers wanting to pound the living shit out of the prick. Reiner. The one guy in the entire school, whose muscle mass was so damn high on the Arnold Schwarzenegger scale, he could bench press the whole football team with one arm.

Eren didn't care about that. He flew for him.

He remembers the crunching noise of broken bone as his fist connected with Reiner’s face. How his ears had started ringing and wouldn't stop after that.

Jean had had to drag him off, away from Reiner because he wouldn't stop thumping the asshole's head. When he'd looked back up and saw the blood pouring out of Reiner's nose, he'd spilt his guts on the grass. He can still taste the bile in his mouth whenever he thinks about it.

Reiner got to go to the hospital because they couldn’t stop the bleeding; Eren got to go to the police station. He still doesn't know how Jean's dad managed to talk them out of pressing charges.

Eren had stayed quiet the entire ride home when his dad picked him up, later that day. He listened to him give him some hippie lecture, about how violence doesn't solve anybody's problems, and tell him how disappointed he was, and then heard the same thing from his mom when he'd got in the house. 

At the time, he'd thought that violence and disappointment seemed to be his theme.

When he thinks about it now, he might have been right. 

* * *

Sitting in a packed bar in a whiskey-stained suit, and nursing a bruised ego, is not how Eren likes to spend a Friday night, but tonight is special.

Tonight, somehow, Eren has managed to avoid both prison and death. Now he's aiming for the hat-trick by staying out all night and avoiding his sister and her inevitable questions.

Like how the _hell_ is he not in jail?

Mikasa shouldn't be expecting him home, anyway.

He rubs at his temples and screws his eyes tight as he tries to get Mikasa's nagging voice out of his head. He's spent enough time pouring over the shit-show that is his life, and now he just wants to get shitfaced instead and forget about it. 

He's got a lot to forget; like the fact he doesn't have a job and is no longer employable, thanks to his recently acquired criminal record. Crucially though, he wants to forget that, for the second time in his twenty-four years of existence, he owes his ass to a Kirschtein. Although, _technically_ , this particular Kirschtein has already had his ass. Several times.

Eren would rather forget that part, too.

He drains the last remaining dregs of his beer and sits the bottle on the smooth granite bar, scoping the area for the bartender so he can catch his eye and order another drink. He’s at the other end of the bar, serving a pretty little brunette. From the way she's making eyes at him, the guy might be there a while. Eren decides to check his phone while he waits; he's got nine missed calls and five texts, all from Mikasa.

**Fri, 05/19/2017**

19:42 **Mika** : Answer ur phone, Eren.  
20:05 **Mika** : Eren, I know u got out, Jean called. Answer ur fkn phone.  
21:11 **Mika** : You better not be drunk or dead, asshole.  
21:15 **Mika** : Eren am I gonna have 2 call the cops again?  
21:17 **Mika** : Eren, please. I just need 2 know ur ok.

_'For fuck's sake, Mikasa.'_

He thinks about replying, but he doesn't want her to call. She _will_ call him. If he doesn't text her back, though, she will call the cops. Eren can't deal with any more fucking cops right now; it's bad enough he has to spend the next six months on some pipe-smoking hipster's couch _talking about things._ He doesn't need life advice from some guy in an ugly tie and a sweater vest. If he did, he would ask his fucking dad.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to think of what to send to his sister to get her off his back. It doesn’t matter what he does.

**Fri, 05/19/2017**

21:45 **Me** : I’m OK Mika, not drunk, not dead. Don’t call cops.

His phone starts vibrating before he's even got it back in his pocket. _Of course,_ it's Mikasa. _Of course,_ she can't just leave him to his one-man pity party. _'Jesus Christ, Mika...'_. He lets out a heavy sigh and cancels the call, sending her another text telling her to stop worrying and go to bed. After a few seconds of thought and staring at his phone, he switches it off for good measure. He'll deal with the consequences later.

As he puts his phone away, he looks up and finds the barman standing in front of him, fiddling with a dish rag. “Girlfriend trouble?” the guy asks, a blond eyebrow cocked upwards.

“Fuck, no,” Eren says, screwing his face at the thought. He picks up his empty beer bottle and shakes it at the barman. “Can I have a beer, please?”

The barman nods and reaches under the bar, pulling out a cold beer and sliding it over. He looks at Eren with a questioning gaze. “Rough day?”

Eren snorts. A rough day is one way of putting it. “You could say that.”

“What happened to your suit?”

Eren absently thumbs the black card in his pocket that had been pushed into his hand not two hours ago. He thinks back on the incident: his mind is still hazy from today’s events and doesn’t offer much to go on. He recalls the falling bottle, a pair of stormy grey eyes on a calm demeanour, sleek black hair, and a thin figure disappearing behind frosted glass. "It's a long story," he says. He'll go with the short version. “An asshole spilled whiskey on me.”

The bartender sends him a sympathetic smile and opens his mouth to speak before his attention is drawn elsewhere. Eren rubs at his neck and drinks his beer, eyeing the barman appreciatively as he serves two hipsters at the top end of the bar; he’s mixing them some weird, tooth-rotting fruity shit that looks like it has twice the ABV of his shitty beer. He might get one of those later: he could use a fast track to oblivion.

“So,” Eren looks up when the barman interrupts his thoughts: he’s been staring into the granite and didn’t realise the guy was back. “You can tell me it’s none of my business if you like but,” he's drying a glass with his rag, a curious look on his face. Eren's eyes drift down, drawn by the subtle flex of muscle in the man's forearms. He catches himself and looks back up to see the man’s lips curled up in a one-sided smirk. _'Shit...'_. “What’s a guy like you doin’ in a bar like this?”

“A guy like me?” Eren can think of a hundred reasons why he’s here right now. He’s been wandering the city most of the afternoon. It’s mostly because this is the first open place that served alcohol that he’d come across.

“Well,” the guy says, thumbing towards the hipsters, “this place is full of stressed-out college kids lookin’ to let loose.” He points to the other end of the room, “and sleazy business-types lookin’ for loose college kids. You don’t look like either.”

“What, this suit doesn’t scream sleazy businessman?”

“It screams somethin’,” the barman says as he rakes his eyes over Eren’s slouched frame. Eren’s not blind; the guy has been looking at him like that most of the night, there’s a little more than a general interest in that look. “But not that.”

Eren’s going to play dumb for now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” the barman says, shrugging, “I just think you look a bit bored and frustrated is all.”

“Yeah, well, like you said. Rough day.”

“So,” It seems that the guy isn’t going to let up. “I’ve got some time, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Eren furrows his brow. “What is this, amateur psychology night? Don’t you have customers to serve?” he asks.

“I’m on break,” he says, “and let’s just say I don’t like to see a sad face.”

Eren swallows down the temptation to sigh. He’s tired, and he’s cranky. He doesn’t really want to spill his guts to some stranger. Still, if he relents, it might put the guy off asking more questions. “I’m just outta court.”

The barman narrows his eyes. “You don’t look like a delinquent.”

“I like how you assume I was the defendant,” Eren says, putting a hand to his chest, feigning offence. “If you’re gonna be calling me a delinquent though, shouldn’t you be checking my ID before you serve me drinks?”

“Oh, I think you’re old enough.” The barman winks. Yeah, he’s definitely flirting. “It’s just you’re too young lookin’ to be a lawyer, and people on jury duty don’t come out with whiskey stains all over their suits.”

Eren looks up at him and shrugs.

“So, what were you in court for?”

“Assault.”

“Did you get off?”

 _‘Not yet…’_. “Nope.” He says the word with a pop. “Pled guilty. Got six months of mandatory anger management counselling.” 

“Was it worth it?”

“It was at the time.” Eren says, “Look, can we talk about something else?”

The barman smiles. “Sure. You want another drink?”

“I’ll have a beer, I just wanna get wasted.”

“You’re not gonna get wasted on beer.”

“Well, what else you got?”

“How about a cocktail?” the barman asks, his eyes shooting up as he starts to rhyme off the cocktail menu. “we got Slippery Nipple, Soapy Tits–“

“Not really a boob man.” Eren interrupts. “What’s Abercrombie and Fitch having?” The barman tilts his head, lips pursed in confusion. Eren nods towards the two hipsters at the top of the bar. “The guy in the flannel shirt and his girlfriend.”

“Oh!” The barman says, smiling when he gets the nickname. “Well, scrawny blond’s havin’ a Redheaded Slut,” he says, smirking, “and _she’s_ havin’ a Wet Pussy.” When Eren screws his face again, the barman’s face splits into a grin. “What, don’t like redheads?” he leans forward onto the bar, “or is it somethin’ else?”

“I’m not into pussy,” Eren says bluntly, checking the guy’s face for a reaction. He slaps the bar. “You know what, surprise me.”

“Alright, I got just the thing.” He starts pulling various bottles from under the bar. Eren watches with intent as the guy sets about mixing the concoction together and straining the amber coloured liquid into a shot glass, topping it off with whipped cream.

“Thanks,” Eren says, taking the cream off with his pinkie finger. He licks the cream off, looking to the barman as he does. “What’s this one called?”

“Hot Lil’ Honey.”

Eren smiles. The barman smiles back, then disappears up the bar to serve some more customers. Eren takes a cautious sip from the shot glass in front of him. It tastes sort of sweet and a sort of fiery, so he downs the shot. It goes down nicely.

He’s drawing figure eights on the bar surface with the leftover cream when another cocktail is placed in front of him.

“On me.” The barman says, his hand reaching out to grab Eren’s when he goes for his wallet. “I think you should give this one a try, you’ll definitely enjoy it.”

“Thanks, what is it?” Eren asks, examining the blood red mixture in the glass and taking a sip.

The barman leans forward, his hand resting on Eren’s shoulder, and whispers in his ear. “Sex with the Bartender.” His breath makes the hairs on the back of Eren’s neck bristle. “I get off in half an hour.”

Just as quickly as he entered Eren’s space, he removes himself from it, folding his arms across his chest and flashing Eren a wicked grin. “Name’s Thomas.”

“Eren,” Eren replies, a coy smile pulling at his lips.

“Pleasure.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well is it crap? Did you like it? Do you still want to read more?


	3. Of Conversations, Situations, and Revelations: A Matter Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _"Levi wants this conversation to end already. “Are you a client here?”_
>> 
>> _“What? No … I–“_
>> 
>> _“You know, I don’t take personal calls at work.”_
>> 
>> _“Oh my God, you_ are _an asshole.” The guy says, his voice laced with irritation._
>> 
>> _Levi’s just thankful the guy is using coherent sentences now. Maybe he’ll find out why he’s actually calling. He leans his elbows on the desk. “Only to people who don’t get to the point.”_
>> 
>> _There’s a frustrated huff on the other end of the line. “Look, man, you were the one who said to call,” the guy says, “since you almost killed me on Friday.”_
>> 
>> _Oh, it’s_ that _guy._
>> 
>> _The angry kid. With the eyes."_
> 
> Or 4k+ words revolving on a phone call, a not-date coffee date with a minor hitch, and a little surprise for Levi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took five fucking months to update this. Excuses in the end-notes. Here's chapter three, have at it. There's a LOT of damn talking in this chapter. But I think it's ok...?
> 
> If temperatures in the low to mid-eighties (Fahrenheit) are not particularly warm for a place with a warm climate (I live in Scotland, it's always winter here, we get like one day with temperatures like that and it KILLS ME!) then let me know. Once again, I'm sorry America. I love you.
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me about any shitty mistakes. Thanks.
> 
> Also, talk to me, I'm lonely.
> 
> Please... ((o.o))

Everybody hates Mondays.

It’s one of those universal truths. Like the fact the sky is blue, the sun sets in the west and, no matter what anyone tries to tell you, squats are the work of Satan.

Everybody fucking hates Mondays and Levi is no exception.

His office is plain and white. Located on the fifteenth floor of a nondescript tower block. Hidden amongst all the other nondescript tower blocks biting into the city skyline like jagged, concrete teeth.

On a good day, it’s a twenty-minute drive from his apartment to the office. It has _not_ been a good day.

This morning, Levi’s car wouldn’t start. That might have been tolerable if it hadn’t meant he’d had to take the shitty subway. Not when the temperature outside was sitting at a level somewhere between the cast of Baywatch and a volcanic eruption. Sitting in a tiny subway car, in eighty-degree heat, along with half of Trost City’s working population, had not been part of Levi’s plan.

It’s not even nine-thirty yet; he already feels like fucking roadkill.

He’s hunched over the sink in the restroom, staring into the mirror. He looks like roadkill, too. He splashes cold water on his face, trying to rid himself of the lingering drowsiness. He hasn’t even had enough time to grab his usual morning coffee.

He can hear his phone ringing in his office. He’s not even in here half an hour, and people want to fucking talk. It’s interrupting his morning ritual of staring at the floor and questioning his existence. Not that he’s even managed to _do_ that this morning.

He glares at the phone as he enters the office, its sharp tone cutting through his skull. He’s not ready for this shit right now. He busies himself at the coffee machine and then screws his eyes when he takes a drink. He’d forgotten how shit the office coffee was.

“Levi, will you pick up the phone?” his secretary shouts through the wall.

Rolling his eyes, he ignores her and lets the damn thing ring. Fuck conversations with actual human beings this early on a Monday morning. Levi does not have his shit together. He hopes she’ll get the message.

The problem is, Petra is a persistent fucker. “Levi, I know you’re in there.”

He grabs his pen and slumps into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he picks up the receiver. “What, Petra?”

“Good morning, Levi,” she says in an all too cheerful voice. Levi wonders what’s so fucking good about it. “You have a call waiting on line two.”

“Who is it?” he asks. There’s a reason he only has afternoon clients, though he doesn’t have any scheduled in today. If it is a client, he hopes they’re calling to cancel. Those are his favourite kind of clients. He palms around for his diary, knocking his paperwork all over the desk. The resulting mess makes him wince.

“I dunno,” Petra says, “some guy.”

He clicks his pen off and on again. “What do they want?”

“They want to speak to you, Levi.”

Levi doesn’t need to be in the same room as his secretary to see the way her perfectly painted red lips are quirking up in a smirk, right now.

He lets out a heavy sigh: if Petra weren't also his friend, he would have fired her already. “Remind me why I pay you?”

There’s a squeak of a laugh. “ _You_ don’t,” Petra says, “Erwin does. All _you_ do is use me to stall clients and screen your one-night stands.”

Levi takes another sip of his coffee and shudders at the bitter taste. He’s not even going to give her the satisfaction of an answer to that; he can’t think of a decent rebuttal, anyway. “So, who’s calling?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant, “a client or a one-night stand?”

Petra giggles like a fucking high schooler. “Did you make a new friend at the weekend?”

He rolls his eyes and pulls a scowl at the phone that would make plants wilt. He hopes Petra feels the vibes seeping through the receiver by osmosis. “Cut the crap, Petra.”

"Take the call, Levi.”

“I’m busy.”

“Drinking shitty coffee and staring at a floor is _not_ busy.”

“Petra…,” he thumps his forehead on the desk. There are times in his life – like right now – when he wonders why he let Erwin convince him to take on this job.

“I’m patching him through.”

There’s a click and then silence. Levi hopes the guy has hung up. The universe has other ideas.

“… is a stupid idea, Mika. I don’t even know this guy’s name …”

The voice is familiar, though it doesn’t sound like a client. Levi can’t quite put a face to it. The caller doesn’t seem to notice the line is open and keeps talking.

“… literally just a black card with a number on it and Humanity’s Strongest written underneath. What the fuck does that even mean …?”

It means jack shit to Levi. He hands those cards out like Halloween candy to anyone with a nice ass or a cute smile when he’s drunk enough. Still, that tagline has gotten him laid plenty. He should thank Erwin, really, for having enough foresight to know exactly how he’d use those business cards. For making them as vague as fuck to compensate.

 _'Christ, you’re still talking.’_  Levi wonders if the guy will ever shut up long enough for him to get a word in.

“… could be anybody. I mean, the guy could be a hitman for all I know …”

Levi’s tempted to hang up. He looks down into his mug and wishes there was scotch inside. Scotch would make this a lot easier. It’s not scotch because, you know, work-alcohol policies and shit. Erwin is a bastard.

“… looked like a hitman. Shit, Mika! I’m on hold to a fucking hitman. Why the fuck did I even call?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question.” The words are out of Levi’s mouth before he can even think about it.

“Jesus Christ!” He hears a thud and a surprised yelp on the other end of the line. Levi supposes the idiot has just fallen over something.

“If you’re looking for Jesus, you have the wrong number.” Erwin is going to fire him one day for the way he speaks to some of the clients. If this guy even _is_ a client.

“Huh …?”

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, hoping to move things along.

“Well I … um …”

Levi wants this conversation to end already. “Are you a client here?”

“What? No … I–“

“You know, I don’t take personal calls at work.”

“Oh my God, you _are_ an asshole.” The guy says, his voice laced with irritation.

Levi’s just thankful the guy is using coherent sentences now. Maybe he’ll find out why he’s actually calling. He leans his elbows on the desk. “Only to people who don’t get to the point.”

There’s a frustrated huff on the other end of the line. “Look, man, you were the one who said to call,” the guy says, “since you almost killed me on Friday.”

Oh, it’s _that_ guy.

The angry kid. With the eyes.

Levi had not been expecting the kid to call today. Or at all for that matter. In fact, up until now, he hadn’t been entirely sure the incident had happened at all. The whole weekend was one big alcoholic blur. Buzzed from the alcohol already in his system, he’d slunk back to his apartment that night, picked up where he’d left off and checked out of reality.

Levi, if he was honest, had forgotten the kid had even existed.

Now he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He could apologise (again). Try to explain that it was lousy karaoke and a highly-strung cat that had caused the whole thing.

"You know hitmen don’t normally hand out business cards, right?” Levi closes his eyes and curses his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. He’s such a dick.

“Is that right? _Normal_ _people_ put their fucking names on business cards, asshole.” The guy doesn’t seem too amused. “You know what, fuck this. I don’t even know why I bothered.”

 _'Shit!’_ Levi does not want the conversation to go this way. Not now he knows who’s calling. Not when there might be a chance to see if those eyes were real.

“Hey, kid, don’t hang up!” He didn’t mean to sound desperate.

“Why the fuck not?” the guy asks. “Why did you even tell me to call you if you were gonna be all snarky about it?”

“Because I was drunk and didn’t know what else to do,” Levi says. “Because I was drinking all weekend and forgot about it.” He’s seriously hoping he doesn’t have to say anything else, but the kid isn’t interrupting him. “Because I _am_ a snarky asshole,” he says, “and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee for this shit.”

He fidgets in his chair. To his relief, the kid laughs. Only a little, but it’s a start.

“Can we start this conversation again?” Levi asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

The kid doesn’t speak for a while. Like he’s deliberating whether or not to carry on with this. “Yeah, ok, sure.”

Starting again is surprisingly easy. Levi arranges to meet the kid for a coffee and ends the call. He starts tidying up the paperwork strewn over his desk. When he looks up, he finds Petra standing in his office. She’s fidgeting with a folder in her hands and looking at him with a quizzical smile.

He mirrors the look on her face with one of his own. Only it’s more of a scowl. “What?”

She ignores him and starts rifling through his drawers.

Levi slams his pen down on the desk, leaning forward in his chair. “What the fuck, Petra?”

“A ten-minute phone call _and_ a coffee date,” she says. It’s not a question. “I’m looking for the real Levi; he seems to have been replaced by someone sociable.”

“It’s not a date.” He goes back to arranging his files. When Petra starts rummaging through his bookcase, he throws his arm out and huffs. “You’re making a fucking mess!”

Her face cracks into a stupid smirk.

“It’s not a date.” He repeats. “I don’t even know the guy.”

“Levi, you only ever say more than two words to anyone if you’re drunk or you like them,” Petra says. “Are you drunk?”

Levi would really like it if Petra got the fuck out of his office. As it is, she’s practically bouncing up and down on her ridiculous heels, glee almost visibly seeping out of her skin. Levi tries to ignore her by getting up and straightening out the books that Petra had messed up. She doesn’t leave.

He sits back down and eyes her over the now neat stack of files. “You’re still here, Petra.”

She walks closer to the desk and hands him a file from the folder she’s been holding. “You have a new client coming in today at three,” she says. “Erwin suggested reading the paperwork this time.”

“Yeah, sure.” He says, taking the file and sitting it on top of the stack without even looking at it. He flicks his hand at her in dismissal. “Goodbye, Petra.”

Petra turns and starts heading back out the office. She turns back to him at the door. “You know I’ll get all the gossip out of your drunk ass on Saturday," she says with a wink. “You should tell me now while you can still remember it.”

“Goodbye, Petra.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Hange…”

“Fuck off, Petra!”

* * *

Zeke's Café is two blocks down from Levi's office, across the street from the police station. Most people don't know, but it attracts a surprising number of bears. Probably because, given its location, it attracts a lot of police officers. It also serves the best bacon and cream cheese bagels in the entire city.

Levi comes here a lot. For the bagels, not the bears (or the cops) although right now, he'd settle for a decent cup of fucking coffee. Still, the smell of fresh bread that's filling the place is making him hungry.

Nine Inch Nails are playing over the speakers, though it's hard to hear it over the noise of clanking plates and chatting customers. Levi used to have a thing for Trent Reznor; he's moved on from that now. He still likes the music.

The place is heaving with the lunchtime rush, and there's barely enough space to get through to the counter. The bears have hijacked the tables on the mezzanine floor, and the cops take up the back two tables on the ground floor. Levi's table – furthest from the door, nearest the counter – is empty and displaying a reserved sign.

Sitting down, he pulls some of his paperwork out of his briefcase and sets it on the table. He checks his phone; it's twelve forty-three. He's meeting the kid at one.

A boyish-looking, freckled waitress approaches his table, but he waves her on, preferring to wait for the kid and work on his reports. He looks up when the door chimes to see a hulking blond cop walk in. Someone upstairs starts catcalling, and the cop flexes his arms. The officers in the back start whooping and hollering. Blondie nods at his friends, flashing them a grin, and saunters towards their table, knocking into Levi's and sending his paperwork flying. 

The guy apologises but doesn't even try to pick the papers up, distracted by the noise his douchey colleagues are making. Levi's never had that much time for cops. He grumbles under his breath and drops down to retrieve the scattered items, checking to make sure there's no dirt on them. At the sound of more catcalls, he comes back up and glances at the entrance. The kid is standing in the doorway, looking around. 

Levi takes in the sight of him. Going by the state of his hair, he'd say the kid had just rolled out of bed. Going by his clothes, he looks like he's just rolled out of Boot Camp. He's wearing a yellow racerback tank; tight across the chest, loose around the waist; camouflage combats, and military boots. His eyes are obscured by a pair of ridiculously pink wayfarer sunglasses. He looks like the kind of guy that could go out wearing a paper bag and still look hot. Slim, but not skinny; built, but not overly so. There's a tattoo on his right arm that starts at his elbow, wrapping up around a well-defined bicep, and ending on a muscular shoulder. He's too far away for Levi to make out what it is. It's probably some tribal shit.

One of the bears shouts down. "Hey, sexy! if you're looking for somewhere to sit, my face is free!"

The kid turns around – the tattoo spreads across his back, too – and looks up. "And be scraping beard fuzz outta my ass for weeks?" he shouts, without pause for thought, "no, thanks, porkchop."

Levi doesn't believe in love at first (or second) sight, but he thinks that this might be pretty close to it.

And his mind needs to get off  _that_  particular train right the fuck now. 

There's a chorus of "oohs" and "meows" from the mezzanine and someone shouts "feisty!". The kid flips them his middle finger and turns back to flag down a passing waitress, leaning into her to speak. She looks up and points to Levi's table. Levi puts his head down and fidgets with his paperwork.

Even though Levi's not looking, he knows the kid is standing there. "You planning on staring at me all day, kid?" he asks after a while, "or are you going to sit down?"

The kid sits. "Do you talk to everyone like this, or is it just me?"

"Oh, shorty's horrible to everybody," Levi's freckled waitress has impeccable fucking timing. Every lunchtime, without fail, she comments on his height. She ignores his narrowed gaze and turns to look at the kid. "S'up Eren?"

"Hey, Ymir."

Levi uses the kid's distraction to his advantage and sneaks a look at his tattoo. It's designed in a way that it looks like his skin is coming apart. Underneath, there's a mix of mechanical and organic parts. Bone and sinew that melt seamlessly into thick ropes of wiring. Cogs, bolts and pistons that fit together like pieces of a puzzle. There's a keyhole etched into the largest, centremost cog. Levi wonders if there's a key tattooed somewhere.

"... so, how d'you know short-ass?"

The dig at his height brings Levi back from his daydreaming. "Are you going to take our order, Ymir?" He interrupts, drawing the brunette's attention. "Or am I going to have to go in back and make it myself?"

Ymir snorts, pulling out a notepad and a pencil from her apron pockets. "I doubt you'd be able to reach the plates."

"I'm surprised you know what plates are since I never see you holding any."

The kid,  _Eren_ 's head has been flicking back and forth between the pair during the whole exchange. "I'll have a PB and banana pancake," he cuts in, "and a kale smoothie, thanks."

Levi scrunches his face at the thought of a peanut butter and banana anything. Ymir nods and scribbles in her pad, turning to Levi and raising a thin eyebrow. "Shorty?"

"The usual."

She grunts in acknowledgement and stalks off before she can piss Levi off any further.

Levi rests his chin in his hand and studies the man in front of him. He's sitting hunched over the table with his head down. "So, Eren, huh?" Eren lifts his head at the sound of his name rolling off Levi's tongue. Levi lets his eyes rake over his face. He's definitely not sure about the wayfarers: it's hard to gauge someone's reactions when they're wearing sunglasses.  _'Yeah, keep telling yourself that,_   _Ackerman.'_  “That’s a nice name.”

"Yeah? well, what's yours?" the kid asks.

"Levi,"

"Levi what?"

"Just Levi," Levi says. "My name's not interesting. Your name is interesting."

"What's interesting about it?" Eren asks, screwing his face and scratching his forearm. "It's Turkish. My mom is Turkish."

"Is that why you wear sunglasses indoors?"

"No, that's because of your sunny personality."

Levi rolls his eyes. "Fucking hilarious," he deadpans. "You going to take them off?"

"What? Why? What's it matter?"

The kid asks too many fucking questions. "It's easier to talk to someone," Levi says, tapping at his temples to punctuate his words, "when you can see all of their face."

Eren seems to consider Levi's point. He shrugs and removes his sunglasses, revealing the wide green-blue-whatever eyes that Levi had been sure he'd made up in a drunken dream. They're fucking beautiful, and they're narrowing at Levi because he's been staring too long. "That's better," he says, fixing his gaze elsewhere.

They sit in silence as they wait for the food to arrive. Eren fidgets. A lot. Scratches his arms, rubs at his face, puts his hair behind his ears, moves it back over his ears. It's annoying, but Levi doesn't mention it. He goes to speak a couple of times but seems to change his mind. Levi's not too worried: he fucking hates small talk anyway.

They eat in silence, too, because talking with your mouth full is fucking disgusting. When Ymir comes over with the bill, Eren starts fishing around in his pockets.

"It's ok, kid, I got this," Levi says, handing his card to Ymir.

"I'm not a kid," the kid says, "and I can pay for myself."

Levi wipes his mouth with a napkin. "It's a fucking pancake, Eren."

Ymir has gone already. Eren groans and leans on the table with his head in his hands.

"So," Levi starts when it's clear the kid isn't going to say anything else. He bends down to go through his briefcase and comes back up with a chequebook. "You want to talk about Friday?"

Eren eyes the chequebook. "You're writing me a cheque?" he asks like there are a million other options. "What is this, the fucking eighties? did you get that out of a museum?"

Levi shoots him an arctic glare. "Want me to take you shopping?"

"Fuck, no," Eren says, rubbing absently at his tattoo.  "That's kinda creepy, man."

"Do you want to give over your bank details?"

Eren pauses like he's thinking about it. "No."

"Do I look like a guy who carries a ton of cash?"

"I dunno," Eren says, shrugging. "Kinda, maybe."

"I don't. You're getting a cheque. Now, what’s your last name?"

"Jaeger."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to spell that, kid."

Levi scratches the letters onto the paper as Eren spells out his full name, then signs and dates the cheque and hands it over to the boy. The look on the kid’s face almost makes Levi laugh.

"Whoa. Dude. This is like–"

"Save it, kid," Levi silences Eren with a raised hand.  "It's compensation. You could have been drinking your food through a straw."

"But–"

"Don't argue. You're saving me in lawyer's fees." Levi checks his phone; he needs to get back to the office soon. He excuses himself to use the restroom. When he comes back out, the blond cop that knocked his reports over is standing at their table, crowding over Eren. The kid doesn't look very happy about it. Levi makes his way over to the table. 

"... need to work on that attitude, Jaeger." The cop is sneering, leaning in close to Eren's face.

"Oh. I'm sorry," Eren says. Levi watches him get up from his seat. Watches his fists start to clench. "I meant fuck off,  _officer_."

The cop lays his hand on the kid's shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Levi can read the warning signs like they've been sky-written in neon smoke. He grabs hold of Eren's arm before he has a chance to move it.

"Don't be stupid, kid." He says, holding Eren firmly at the wrist.

"Yeah, careful Jaeger, you wouldn't wanna find yourself in  _another_  nasty situation." The cop spits. He turns to Levi. "You his probation officer? I hope you saw that?"

"I didn't see much," Levi says, "I heard even less," he fixes a steely gaze on the cop. "But I know what provocation looks like. If I were you, officer, I'd follow your own advice."

The cop looks between Eren and Levi and points his finger at the kid. "I'm watching you, Jaeger. You're not always gonna have someone around to save your ass."

* * *

Petra's filing her already perfect nails at the reception desk when Levi gets back to the office. He looks at her with disgust. "I hope you're going to clean that."

"How was the date, Levi?" 

"Fucking peachy," he says, walking past her desk and straight into his office. He leans back out the door. "And it wasn't a date."

"Sure," Petra says, blowing nail dust off the desk.

He collapses into his chair and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He wants today to be over; wants to go home to his cat and a stiff drink. After that little sideshow at Zeke's, after he'd gotten the kid to calm down, he'd actually managed to exchange numbers with him. Sure, it was under the pretence of double-checking the kid's cheque clears, that he gets his money alright, but really it's because something about that cop had made him feel uneasy and, for the first time in God knows how long, Levi's interested in someone. And not just because he wants to fuck him, although that's definitely part of it. He actually  _wants_  to butt into this guy's business. He wants to know what Eren Jaeger is all about; wants to know what his deal is. So, yeah, he wants to get the fuck home and text the kid to make sure he's alright.

There's just the looming problem of a fucking client to deal with. He's not even looked at the file Petra gave him. Not that he ever does. There's no time to do it now anyway. 

"Jeez, this guy must be something." Levi bolts up in his chair when he hears Petra's voice.

"I'm just tired, Petra, I've had a shitty day."

"Levi, I've seen you tired, you look the same as you do when you're not tired." She's giving him the voice.  _'Fuck off, Petra...'_

"It's not what you're thinking, Petra." He lies, just to get her to shut the fuck up. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and sighs.

Petra’s not stupid.

"You can tell me about it. I won't make fun of you, I promise." She says softly. "Well, you can tell me about it later, your three o'clock is here," she thumbs behind her and winks, "he's a cutie."

Levi slides over to his desk and pulls out a notebook from one of the drawers. "Yeah? Send him through then."

In the space of the five or so seconds it takes for the client to come from reception to Levi's office, Levi learns three things: you can be simultaneously surprised and not surprised at the same time; his new client is definitely cute alright, in fact, he's fucking gorgeous, and Levi is completely and utterly fucked.

"Holy fuck!" Eren says, right about the same time as Levi says, "Well, shit!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah, excuses for me taking FIVE DAMN MONTHS to update this?
> 
> I procrastinated about 80% of the time,  
>  I had a SHIT-TON of work over the summer,  
>  2 funerals, a baby announcement (not one of my own, God!), an engagement and the death of my mother's pet cat and...  
>  Some mild depression.
> 
> There. That's it. Everything's good now - except the procrastination and the work part. I'll probably take another 3 months to add another chapter to this, but I WILL add another chapter (I aim for 16 of them). Now, I'm going to bed, I'm fucking tired.


End file.
